along, opposite the rear of the barber's shop, and it sold dolls. Dolls and dolly paraphernalia: doll's houses and cots and clothes and dolls of all description. It was called the Doll's House.
In that forgotten road the shop window stood out, dressed in white lace. An old woman dressed in long dark clothes and woollen shawls owned the shop but she was rarely seen. And customers were few. With Christmas coming, the only concession in the unchanging window was a single gold star that hung from a white suspended ceiling. A mangy black cat lived in the window and curled up on the cots. Its tail flicked over the plastic and porcelain skins and the beady lifeless eyes. Perhaps it looked content because it thought it had smothered a baby.
Mr Lawrence didn't often use the road for it was a depressing place, a throwback to an older time when grey was the colour and soot rained from belching chimneys. He saw it when he closed the yard gate on the mornings the bins were emptied. The executives always left it open. Only occasionally, when the gangs of youths were particularly boisterous, would he use that way to The British.
He'd noticed the gangs earlier as they left trails of lager cans behind them. It was interesting, Mr Lawrence considered, that these hard men of the time could not stomach bitter. And perhaps that was the difference between men and men who needed to be in gangs. The British was full of office workers on their Christmas night out getting in the way of the regulars. They were loud and noisy, making the most of their once-a-year excuse, expecting other people to join their revelry.
How he hated Christmas with its merrymakers in their cheap office suits and last year’s skirts that were now two sizes too small. How he hated the youngsters with the futures they didn’t deserve.
Smoke drifted in thin layers. Cigarette butts were crushed on the carpet. Lager dribbled from the bar.
An older man in a worn black suit and yellow tie was being served. He was obviously a director or the owner of the office to which the merrymakers belonged for he had bought a round of drinks and was now dithering about his own. “A real ale, please. An IPA, or something like that. Double Diamond or Red Barrel”
His tie or the drinks he had bought left the bargirl in her tight black skirt unimpressed. “Sorry, never heard of them. Have some of this schoolboy’s piss like everyone else.”
On the bar was a collection box for Rasher and the colonel. People edged away from it. It was the only place, a yard either side, where you could get served without queuing two deep. The thing is, apart from Rasher and the colonel who had sadly departed before being excused, the collection boxes were a reminder of what Darwin might have pointed out, that it is charity that holds back the future. That keeping the weak and the beggars alive to spread their what have you with the strong, is messing with evolution. The doctor or the double-glazing salesman was there.
He asked, “How are the voices?”
Albert and Sid the Nerve shuffled closer to listen. The barber's ears twitched.
“I'm afraid they're getting worse.”
“That's not good.”
“He's been watching the news, the famine in Africa.”
“It could be worse.”
“Could it?”
“It could be in a country we cared about.”
“I see what you mean.”
“But it's not good.”
“Why is that?'
“Famine in any country isn't good, is it?”
“Well, there’s China, I suppose, or India, or any one of the Arab countries. But I see what you mean. But Paul, is Paul mad?” “Mad? Madness is a state of mind. We all go through periods of madness, when we're angry or in love or chasing money in a slot machine. Insanity is different. Only if we're mad all the time are we insane. But if we're insane we can be mad some of the time.” Sid frowned.
So did Albert as he nodded thoughtfully.
So did the barber. He pulled at his right ear, searching for loose hair.
“But it's getting worse. What can I expect?”
The man bunched his shoulders, as though it helped his concentration. “Does he dress up? Perhaps as a woman? Like, for instance, Norman Bates?”
Roger the manager heard the name and edged over.
“I haven't seen him in woman's clothes.”
“Well, watch out for it.”
“It's not something I'd fail to notice.”
“You'd be surprised.”
“Anything else?”
“Reminiscence.”
“He's got a good memory. He knows lots of chess openings.” “Not memory, old boy. It's a medical term used to describe inhibition dispersion.”
Sid the Nerve said, “Right. Nice One. I remember. It's the String Theory, right? Yeah. Wormholes. Know where you’re coming from.” The salesman shook his head and continued, “Most of our actions are inhibited by negative thoughts – boredom, lack of motivation, understanding and so forth. In the normal person a short break, a rest period, from a given task will give renewed vigour. With the psychotic this isn't the case. Basically, he picks up from where he left off. The rest period has made no difference. The reason is that the psychotic needs a much longer rest period for his inhibitions to disappear. Slowness, therefore, is a definite sign.”
Roger said, “So we're talking about politicians, Gordon Brown and Jack Straw in particular?”
“Anything else?”
“Extroverts, watch out for the slow extrovert.”
“What can be done?”
“Pills. Lots of them. Phlebotomy for the politicians.”
The street door opened and a blast of air shot in, followed immediately by Mrs Puzey. She waded in with her considerable bulk and people were flattened against the bar. She waved a threatening umbrella.
“You led my little girl astray!”
The crowd at the far end of the bar turned to look.
Mr Lawrence swayed this way and that as a professional boxer might have done, keeping well away from the point. He stuttered, “I beg your pardon?”
“You! You! You evil man! My little girl was innocent until she met you!”
He tried to pacify her by throwing up his hands in his best gesture of geniality. Mr Lawrence knew all about body language, the language of management. Keep eye contact, keep your knees pointing toward the opposing genitals, lick your lips and leave your tongue hanging – that sort of thing. She saw the streaky bandage and was momentarily distracted. Albert ducked out of the way.
“Calm down, Mrs Puzey, for goodness sake. No one is leading your daughter anywhere.”
“She lives in your house of sin. I know. Don't you try to tell me otherwise. All them filthy pictures on your walls. I can hardly bring myself to clean them. Oh, sweet Jesus, what am I to do? My little girl is at the mercy of this… this…”
Roger helped her out. “Pervert,” he suggested.
Mrs Puzey said, “Exactly. Pervert!”
Roger's smile spread out and spread to the others. Within moments the hilarity reached the far corners.
Such bracing acerbities were too much for Mr Lawrence and in a weighty and determined voice which was most unlike his and had the others that knew him quite nonplussed, he said, “Listen to me, woman!”
The shock of his sudden stand had her backing off but she managed, “Don't you make none of them clever excuses to me.” “Mrs Puzey, Laura is staying at the shop for a while until she can sort herself out. I have laid down strict ground rules. She has to be in at a certain time, an early time, and she can have no one back at any time. She has given up all her other activities. What is more, she is serving in the shop and I am teaching her about art. She stands on the verge of a new career. For goodness sake, have her back. Come and get her things. I thought I was doing you all a favour. I'm certainly not putting up with this nonsense.”
She seemed flustered now, at once concerned that she had reached the wrong conclusion and that it might